


Intuition

by Rose_Moon_988



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cottagecore, Dancing, F/M, Slow Burn, Star Trek exists as a show in this world, Use of the Force, but not Star Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_Moon_988/pseuds/Rose_Moon_988
Summary: You’re a historian/curator who works at a prestigious museum in a small New England town. When a handsome Scottish architect moves to town just in time for the museum’s annual fundraising gala, your world turns upside-down in the very best of ways.A/N: An Obi-Wan AU inspired by Down With Love and Taylor Swift’s album, folklore.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 87





	1. Invisible String

Part I

\--

“Time, wondrous time

Gave me the blues and then purple-pink skies

And it's cool, baby, with me

And isn't it just so pretty to think

All along there was someInvisible string

Tying you to me?”

-‘Invisible String’ Taylor Swift

\--

~1~

“Who do you think did that one?”

You point up at the floor-to-ceiling chalkboard while waiting in line at the local coffee house you and your coworkers frequented at lunch. It was there that someone had drawn a very detailed rendering of the front of the museum where you worked.

“You mean who at the museum drew that?”

Your friend and coworker, Julia, clarified as you and her examined the sketch like it was a bizarre cubist painting. As the museum’s conservator and a local artist, Julia was much better at identifying styles of art then you were. You were the museum’s historian and curator and not exactly the artsy type.

“Yeah.”

You assent, examining the masterful chalk work.

“I think it’s Mace.”

You guess. Mace Windu was your extremely talented, down-to-earth Museum director who also played in a local punk-rock band on the weekends. You wouldn’t be surprised if he also turned out to be a skilled artist.

“That would make sense. The gala is next week and Mace has been extra anxious this year about attracting more local attendees. But there’s no mention of the gala anywhere, and besides, it isn’t Mace’s style. He’s much more of a modernist.”

Julia observed as the barista called up the next person in line.

She goes up to the counter to order her drink as you linger back, running your eyes over the precise lines and detailed rendering of the Greco-Roman façade. It was a building you had seen every weekday since you finished graduate school four years ago, but somehow the artist’s rendition made it feel like you were seeing it for the first time.

“Next!”

The barista calls out to you, bringing you back from your reverie.

“Do you know who did that drawing?”

You ask the college student standing behind the counter in a trendy black T-shirt tucked into his Levi’s as he takes your order.

“Dunno. The guy who did it has been coming in here regularly for a few months now, but I didn’t catch his name. It took him a good two hours to do. I think he said he was an architect or something.”

You smile and thank him as he hands you your steaming cup of Americano. You make sure to drop a little extra in the tip jar as your appreciation for the information.

“Apparently whoever did it is an architect.”

You reveal to your friend as the two of you take a table by the window.

“An architect, you say?”

Julia raises her eyebrow as she takes a sip of her latte. Her fiancé is an architect at the only firm in town, so if anybody might know who the stranger was it was him.

“It must be that new guy from Scotland Jake hired a few months ago. He’s an absolutely brilliant architect, but a very quiet guy—keeps to himself mostly when he’s not working or teaching classes at the college.”

“How mysterious.”

You comment as you blow on your coffee to cool it down.

“Jake and I were thinking of inviting him to the gala next Saturday to introduce him to some new people from town.”

You perk up at this information. Truthfully, your life had fallen into a kind of routine ebb and flow since you split with your ex a year ago. The intrigue of a quiet and brilliant newcomer was exacting news, although it was admittedly coated in Jane Austen fantasy.

As if reading your thoughts, Julia goes on.

“He’s single and also, like, movie-star level handsome. I would have mentioned him to you earlier, but we’ve all been so busy with the new exhibits that I completely forgot.”

You laugh.

“Movie-star handsome, and you didn’t tell me? I’m offended.”

She shrugs and takes another sip of her latte.

“Jake says he’s the kindest guy he’s ever met in his entire life. He’s also spiritual, or something, and volunteers at the homeless shelter.”

“Julia!”

You admonish in a tone that would have carried across the room had it not been ringing with the chatter of other customers.

“What?”

You mutter incoherently in response for dramatic effect. She smiles, knowing exactly what you mean.

“I figured he was just too much like you. Based on your track record of past boyfriends I thought you were in the whole opposites-attract camp.”

“Fuck you.”

You mummer into your coffee as you down its dregs.

“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see when he comes to the gala next Saturday.”

You give your friend a sarcastic look.

~2~

You frown as you check the weather on your phone. Thunderstorms were in order for the evening. You had ridden your bike to work that morning in anticipation of the deceptively good weather holding out for the entire day and now it was your only mode of transportation home.

“See ya tomorrow!”

Mace calls to you over his shoulder as he strides past your desk on his way out.

“Goodnight!”

You call back, watching him jealously through the window as he gets into his black BMW parked across the street. The skies were quickly darkening and you know you’re not going to make it home before the storm hits. You could have easily asked him for a ride, or Julia before she left, or anyone who worked at the museum, for that matter. They were all some of the most generous people you had ever met in your entire life, but you were suborn and too kind to ask for favors.

You shut down your desktop computer and file away the research you had been doing all day for a new exhibit on the history of the English Civil War. You were building it around several paintings and artifacts that a museum in England was sending along as a part of an inter-museum exchange program. It was a very time-intensive project, considering that it wasn’t exactly your area of expertise, so you had been staying late at the museum almost every day for the past two weeks. Usually Mace was the one to close the place down, but, much to his relief, that task had unwittingly fallen to you for the time being.

As you turn off all of the lights in the offices at the back of the museum where you worked and checked to make sure that the side-entrance was locked, you make your way upstairs to the main concourse.

“Goodnight, Boba.”

You wave goodbye to the security guard at the front desk and duck out the front entrance into the wind and humidity of a coming thunderstorm. He looks up from his copy of the New York Times and to give you a smile and a nod.

Your bike was waiting for you by the steps of the museum—chained up next to a bike that had been abandoned since long before you came to work there. It had itself become a kind of artifact, deteriorating in the elements. You entertained the idea of using it in an exhibit someday, but what kind of exhibit it would be you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

As you unchain your bike and place your brown, leather messenger bag in the wicker basket attached to the front, you began to feel raindrops.

“Fuck.”

You mummer. You don’t even have a jacket to shield yourself from the elements. It’s going to be a long ride home.

Your blue button-down shirt slowly becomes saturated as you ride down the narrow back roads of the small New England town to the small historic cottage you call home.

Almost there.

You think to yourself as you turn onto a road that is more gravel than asphalt. All of a sudden, your bike catches on a rock and you collapse with it into the shoulder, covering yourself in mud. You’re dazed, but unharmed, and your first thought is one of thankfulness that the messenger bag with your laptop didn’t hit the ground.

“Hello there. Are you alright?”

A voice asks and you turn your body to face whoever it was from where you sat in the mud.

“I think so?”

There was a man approaching you with a large, red umbrella. He was clutching a briefcase in one hand and wore navy blue dress pants with a white button-down shirt and tie. He carried a matching navy-blue blazer slung casually over his arm and his clean-shaven face was framed by sleek black-rimmed glasses.

You were suddenly conscious of the way you must have appeared to this stranger—hair slipping haphazardly out of its bun and work clothes completely ruined by the mud and the rain. Instead of feeling embarrassed, though, you suddenly begin to laugh as you lift one of your hands from the ground and allow the sticky brown mush to slide off of it.

The man smiles in kind and shuffles his things with a clumsy urgency to extend a free hand to help you up.

You take it, apologizing profusely for the way you proceed to coat it in mud, but he appears completely unbothered by it.

“Where do you live?”

He asks in a warm Scottish accent before immediately blushing at the realization of how improper that question sounded coming from a complete stranger.

“I only mean if you live down this lane you can share my umbrella until we get to where you’re going. I figured that, at the very least, I could stop you from getting any more wet.”

He blushes again, clearly thinking he’d just put his foot in his mouth, but you find it rather cute.

“That would be lovely. Thank you so much.”

You lift your bike upright and sling your messenger bag over your shoulder so that it too could at least enjoy the cover of the umbrella for a little while.

“What’s your name?”

It was your turn to ask questions now.

“Obi-Wan. But my friends call me Obi for short.”

“Obi-Wan.”

You repeat, trying out the syllables on your tongue. It was a name you had never heard before, but you certainly liked the sound of it.

He perks up when you tell him your name, as if he’s heard it before, but doesn’t say anything.

You both walk on for a while making jokes about the state of your clothing and talking about what you each did for a living. You discover pretty quickly that Obi-Wan is the partner at Julia’s fiancé’s architecture firm in town. He then reveals that he knows of you as well, but only as ‘Julia’s friend who went through a bad breakup.’ You file that information away to chide Julia about later.

“This is my place.”

He gestures to a soft pink Victorian home with a wrap-around porch, accented with white lattices and a grey mansard roof. It was the house sitting directly across from the private lane that led to your own. Your eyes grow wide at the realization that you hadn’t even been aware that someone moved into the house since the elderly couple who used to own it moved into a nursing home some months ago.

Had you really been so preoccupied with your job? Or had Obi-Wan just slipped quietly under your radar?

“Sometimes I wonder if I took the job with Jake not because I liked his work, but because I’ve always wanted to live in a colorful Victorian home just like this one. You can’t find houses like these in Scotland.”

He mused, caught up in some private thought as he looked at his house before bringing his attention back to you.

“It looks like we’re neighbors.”

You reveal.

“I live in that cottage down the dirt driveway across from you. It’s a restored eighteenth-century home.”

“That sounds lovely. I’m actually working on a home right now that involves some elements of the eighteenth-century New England style.”

“Feel free to come by anytime you’d like and have a look. I’m very proud of the way it came out.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened.

“Did you restore it yourself?”

You blush in embarrassment, knowing that you were a historian and not an architect.

“Well, I mainly did the research for it. My dad, my brother and my brother-in-law were the ones who did most of the manual labor, I just kind of stood back and did all of the painting and decorating afterwards.”

He smiles and looks for a moment like he’s considering something.

A shiver runs up your spin from the cold rain and you suddenly long for a warm bath.

“It was very lovely to meet you, Obi-Wan. I really appreciated the company—and the umbrella.”

“Very lovely to meet you too. I hope we run into each other again sometime, though hopefully under better weather conditions.”

He blinks up at the grey sky and the droplets which have mercifully slowed.

“Me too.”

You admit with genuine conviction.

“Here, take my umbrella.”

He offers, handing the curved wooden handle to you.

“I think you need it more than I do.”

You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or just being nice. You figured it must be a little bit of both.

“I couldn’t. Besides, I’m already well-past needing an umbrella now.”

“I insist. You can leave it by the mailbox tomorrow, or whenever you don’t need it anymore.”

With that, you bid your charming neighbor goodbye and head home with his red umbrella in your hand.


	2. Among the Whisperings and the Champagne and the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on posting another chapter until after finals, but it turns out writing is a great way to procrastinate lol and I also had a lot of fun writing this one. The title is part of a quote by one of my favorite authors, F. Scott Fitzgerald, in The Great Gatsby. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of alcohol

~1~

“Just how many people did you tell I had a bad breakup, Jules?”

“Hello, how are you, Julia. I like your new dress, Julia. Did you have a nice drive into work?”

You give your friend a sarcastic glare.

“I’m serious. Last night when I was coming home from work I ran into Jake’s co-worker—that new guy Obi-Wan—and he told me-”

“You meet Obi-Wan?”

“Yes, Julia, but that’s not the point-”

“I didn’t know that he lived on your side of town.”

“He’s my neighbor. If I sneeze too hard from my living room he can probably hear it.”

She starts laughing.

“You’re telling me that Obi-Wan’s been your neighbor for months now and you only just found out yesterday?”

“Oh my god, Julia, you’re impossible. Yes, but like I said-”

“He only knows because Jake and I were out to dinner with him about two months ago when you called crying about how your ex was engaged to the girl he cheated on you with. I couldn’t just leave them so abruptly without some explanation.”

“I see.”

Your tone becomes much more subdued as you recall that night with much embarrassment.

“Come on, it’s not so bad. According to Jake, Obi-Wan was perfectly sympathetic. Said something about having a bad breakup himself before leaving Scotland.”

You smile secretively to yourself.

“I told you that you’d like him.”

“He is very charming.”

You admit, cautiously.

“That settles it. I’ll ask Jake to put the idea in his head of asking you to the gala.”

“Please don’t. If he’s going to ask me out, I’d rather it not be out of pity.”

“Suit yourself. But seeing the way that English Civil War exhibit is drowning you in work, I thought you could use a little help.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, but no.”

“What’s this?”

Mace interrupts as he wanders over to where Julia stands hovering over your desk.

“I didn’t think we were commissioning Julia to do an art piece for your exhibit too.”

“Hello, Mace.”

Julia greeted.

“I was just saying hello to my friend on my way out.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“Oh, and by the way, I left the appraisal of that painting for the auction on your desk. It’s sure to bring in a pretty penny if you catch my drift.”

Mace let out a small self-satisfactory huff as he took a sip of his Starbucks latte. 

“Thank you, Julia, that’s very good news. Now, if you two could get back to work it would be much appreciated.”

Turning on his heel, Mace walks away towards the stairwell leading up to the main concourse.

“What’s got his knickers all up in a twist?”

As a former elementary school teacher, Julia had a vast vocabulary of obscure terms to replace obscenities.

“Oh, it’s just the gala.”

You explain. Julia had just been hired as full-time staff at the museum less than a year ago, so it made sense that she didn’t quite understand.

“He gets like this every year. The man puts too much pressure on himself. He always tries to outdo what he did the previous year in an attempt to put on the Met Gala 2.0; except instead of famous celebrities, we get all of the old-money families who’ve been here since the pilgrims.”

“Ahhh. They didn’t mention that to me in the interview.”

You shoot her a sarcastic glare.

“They never do.”

“See you later for dinner?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

~2~

Since the next day is Saturday, you let yourself stay out with Julia, Jake, and a couple of mutual friends much later than normal. By the time everyone is ready to leave the cozy neighborhood pub, it’s already two in the morning. You don’t usually drink more than a glass or two at most, but that night you overindulge a little and find yourself just drunk enough not to be able to drive yourself home.

Julia, who had unwittingly become the designated driver for the night, drops you off last. You feel bad that she has to make it back all the way across town again with her sleeping fiancé in the passenger seat, so you insist that she drop you off at the top of your dead-end gravel street.

“Are you sure?”

She asks, masking her exhausted relief with a tinge of concern.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright. There are only like five people who live on my street and I know all of them now.”

“Okay, but promise to text me when you get home please?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

You reply as you half stumble out of the car. The fresh night air feels wonderful on your face as you begin to walk back towards your cottage.

“Byeeee!”

You shout and wave at your friend as she turns her car around and drives off.

All of the houses you pass by are dark, but the street lamp and the full moon provide more than enough light to guide your way home.

When you get to the end of your street where the road divides into your long driveway and Obi-Wan’s across from it, you notice that the lights are still on in the large pink Victorian home. You stop right in front of the walkway leading up to the house where Obi-Wan had given you his umbrella just the other day.

You’re still a little intoxicated, but lucid enough to recognize the sound of Willie John’s “Fever” pouring out from open windows on the first floor. You squint and see the figure of Obi-Wan in a white tee-shirt and sweatpants dancing alone in the living room.

Sober you would have never in a million years dreamed of doing what slightly drunk you decides to do next.

“I love that song!”

You call out from the road.

The volume of the music gets lower and you watch as Obi-Wan approaches the window to see just what breed of crazy he has standing outside his house so late at night.

“Y/N, what are you doing out so late? It’s nearly three in the morning.”

You laugh.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I was working.”

He explains casually.

“No, you were dancing. I didn’t think you were a dancing instructor.”

You try hard not to reveal that you’re still a little tipsy, but fear that he can already tell.

“Sometimes.”

He smiles, making his way out to the front porch. He leans up against the railing and you can’t help but stare at the way his white t-shirt hugs the muscles on his chest.

“Sorry,”

You apologize, the alcohol slowly wearing off.

“I was out with Julia, Jake, and some friends much later than I meant to be.”

“I’m sorry I missed all the fun. Jake invited me, but I was too busy to join tonight.”

“That must be quite a project you’re working on.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond to your comment, but a mysterious look crosses his face that tells you it was something he didn’t care to reveal at the moment.

“Can I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve finished my work and it’s a fine night to sit outside and admire the stars with some good company. That is, if you’re not set on going home to bed right away.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a minute.”

Obj-Wan motions towards two rocking chairs on the porch.

You collapse into one of the chairs as suddenly the exhaustion of a night out hits you without warning.

But the motion of the rocking chair is relaxing and the blissful spontaneity of being asked to tea by your cute neighbor is more than enough to keep you from bailing.

“Are you alright?”

You were so deep in tired thought that you hadn’t even noticed Obi-Wan return with two mugs of chamomile tea.

He hands you a mug with a faded picture of a cat and yarn on it.

“I’m alright.”

You reply.

“You looked a little sad is all.”

You go to blow on your tea.

“It’s probably the alcohol.”

He smiles a little.

“That would do it.”

He takes a sip of his tea and contemplates something briefly in silence.

“Can I show you something?”

You raise your eyebrow slightly.

“It depends.”

He blushes.

“I mean, I have this telescope . . . and um, you can use it to look at the stars. Here, let me bring it over.”

You find it cute to see him so flustered that you hope you have the opportunity to do it again.

He bounds over to the other end of the porch and lifts a rather heavy-looking telescope to bring over to where you’re seated.

“It’s been in my family for years, so I don’t suppose it’s as clear and accurate as the telescopes they have today, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to get a new one.”

You watch as he lifts up the bottom of his shirt to clean the glass eyepiece. The gesture reveals a portion of bare skin and you turn away, blushing. You want to laugh at yourself. The reaction reminds you of how you suppose men reacted to seeing a lady’s bare ankle two hundred years ago.

“It’s a very fine telescope.”

You try to concentrate on admiring the polished brass and vintage design of the device.

“There, why don’t you give it a go?”

You get up and give Obi-Wan a curious look before positioning your eye just over the glass.

The picture is hopelessly blurred, but you can still make out the glimmer of the stars.

“I’m getting light, just not a very clear picture.”

You remark, pulling your face away from it.

“If you look through the eyepiece again, I’ll try to adjust it and see if that helps.”

He hovers next to you so close that you can feel his body heat. You hear the soft click of a knob turning and suddenly the picture you see becomes as clear as if you were there, standing among the stars. He stops his adjustments the moment he hears your breath catch in pleasant surprise.

“It’s beautiful. Come. You should have a look too, I don’t want to hog it.”

Your face is replaced by his as he takes a look through the glass.

“Orion’s belt. It’s a little like seeing an old friend.”

He motions to remove his gaze from the device, but something catches his eye and he stays, moving the telescope just a little to the right.

“The moon is almost too bright to look at, but the creators are visible on its surface. Here, take a look.”

He hands the instrument off to you again and you have a look at the moon.

“Hello, moon.”

You smile.

“You look awfully happy tonight.”

“Most uninhabited planets have calm energy about them. It’s too bad you haven’t had the chance to visit any.”

You slowly remove your gaze from the telescope to find a curious expression of longing on Obi-Wan’s face, as if he had really visited other planets, but the moment he notices you starting, a smile erases the look and he changes the subject.

“My parents were both astrophysicists before they died, so I have a particular affinity toward the stars.”

You nod, understanding, and allowed your hand to briefly graze his like you had seen people do when they wanted to acknowledge another’s grief wordlessly. You had never been particularly good with words when strong emotions were involved, so you’d tried to find other ways to express yourself in these circumstances. 

Obi-Wan looked surprised like you’d just given him a static shock. Your eyes widened in puzzlement at what you’d done wrong. The touch was light, brief and polite, but you also recognize it was sudden and that not everyone found such gestures comforting or even polite.

“I’m so sorry.”

You apologize. You observe the pattern of his thoughts as traced out by the movements of his face for an indication that it was accepted.

Instead: “No, there is no need to apologize. I . . . I just heard something.”

There was only silence, the crickets, and your two voices.

“What did you hear?”

You venture, wondering at the extent to which the alcohol from earlier was still distorting your judgment.

“You.”

Your vision was no longer impaired—you were definitely stone-cold sober. The seriousness in his voice was the only thing keeping you from thinking he had lost his mind.

“But I wasn’t talking.”

_No, but your thoughts were._

His lips hadn’t moved, but you definitely heard his voice.

“How are you doing that?”

You were startled, intrigued, and entirely of the opinion that you weren’t leaving until you figured out what the hell was going on. Call it a curious mind cultivated from years of questioning everything you’d ever read or heard, but you hadn’t discounted the possibility that what he had done was very, very real.

His face widened into the biggest smile you’d observed on him yet.

You decided to try and reciprocate.

_Can you hear me too? If you can, tell me, out loud, that when I was 17 I got into MIT but declined at the last minute. I’ve never told anyone this, not even my parents know I applied._

“Why didn’t you think you were smart enough to go to MIT?”

Not only had Obi-Wan read your thoughts, but he had read beyond that which you consciously thought.

“Because I couldn’t envision a future there. Mathematical formulas drove me insane.”

 _But there had to have been a reason for you to apply_.

 _I was sitting home on a Friday night in high school watching Star Trek and imagining myself inventing warp speed and technologies that could get humanity to think outside of themselves, even for just a second_. _It was an impulse decision to apply, really_.

“It’s not silly. In fact, it was rather brave of you. Why did you choose history instead?”

_Because I want everyone on Earth to stop making the same goddamn mistakes and learn from the past for a change._

_It appears you are very passionate about both subjects_. _It is a good combination. But you should not give up your pursuit of one for the other._

“Is that why you were up so late tonight? Are you more than just an architect?”

It seemed this mind-reading business worked both ways. He nodded with a smile.

“I too enjoy science.”

“Oh. Is telepathy an invention of yours?”

“No, but you’re the first person I’ve met who could respond to me.”

You are silent awhile, absorbing all that had just happened. You know that by the morning it will all be re-codified in your brain as a dream or a hallucination. The only logical course of action, you think, is to have a little fun before reality sets in.

“What would happen if you touched my hand again but for a little longer this time?”

He placess the palm of his hand up for you to take.

“Let’s see.”

You place your palm on top of his, allowing your fingers to interlock.

A sudden calm washes over you and you close your eyes. After a moment, however, your thoughts clear, like your vision had when Obi-Wan adjusted the telescope.

 _This is the Force_. _It controls everything in the Universe_. _Being one with the Force is like, you might say, being one with God_.

The expanse of the universe felt like it had exploded within you, leaving behind a burst of light and knowledge. You could suddenly _feel_ the crickets and the moonlight like they were extensions of yourself. You give an involuntary gasp and pull away, overwhelmed by the sensation.

There were so many questions you want to ask and so much more you want to learn about this thing called “The Force.” But, you could see the tired lines around Obi-Wan’s gorgeous blue eyes and had felt his exhaustion, as well as your own, in the moments he’d held your hand and your minds blended together as one.

“Are you alright?”

He rushes to you in concern and you have the faint desire to bring him into your arms and disappear there for a while without a word. 

“Much better than alright, but . . .”

“You’re tired, I can tell. You should go home and get some sleep, love.”

The way he says the word “love” was perfectly platonic in that British way, but at the same time, it feels more significant than simply saying your name.

“Can we talk more about this another day? I’m really intrigued, and, well, I’ve really enjoyed myself tonight.”

“Me too.”

He hands you your purse and walks you to the end of his driveway, like the perfect gentleman he is.

“Goodnight, Obi-Wan.”

You pause, lingering at the mailbox for just a moment longer.

 _Goodnight, Y/N_.

The sound of his voice in your head at that moment somehow feels more intimate than a kiss.

 _Come by for tea sometime. I would like to return the favor_.

You turn and head down the long gravel driveway to your cottage.

“When?”

You suddenly hear Obi-Wan shout after you.

You turn to respond.

“Whenever. My plans are fairly open this weekend.”

It’s too dark to see the expression on his face, but the lingering sensation of . . . whatever it was that happened between the two of you when he showed you the Force allows you to feel the joy that creeps into him.


	3. A Tender Curiosity

When you get home to your cottage that night you fall into a deep and heavy sleep—the kind that’s ripe for dreaming. The dreams you have are so vivid and wild that you wake up late the next morning with all of your sheets and blankets on the floor and the faint notion that you had visited at least ten different worlds.

You’re breathing heavy and covered in sweat. When you look over at your phone, you notice that the clock reads noon and you have two missed calls from Julia. It feels like you didn’t sleep so much as run a marathon. You wonder if it has anything to do with the paranormal experience you had with Obi-Wan earlier that morning. But, as soon as you get up and feel the full force of a hangover pounding in your head, you decide to blame it on the alcohol.

“Hello, Julia?”

You groan into the phone when you notice that your friend has called for the third time.

“There you are. When you didn’t text me that you got home last night? I thought you might be dead. I was about to send over a search party.”

“Sorry, I meant to text. Didn’t get around to it.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. If you woke up with as nasty of a hangover as Jake did, I can only imagine how badly you want to get back to bed.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Talk to you later, Y/N.”

“Talk to you . . . wait, Jules.”

“Yes?”

“Um, about Obi-Wan.”

“What about Obi-Wan?”

You hear the pregnant pause in her voice as your brain buffers while searching for the right question to ask.

“I ran into him last night and I wanted to ask—”

Unfortunately for both of you, your phone dies mid-sentence.

“Shit.”

You mumble to yourself, annoyed, but not annoyed enough to search for the charger that was buried somewhere underneath your blanket and pillows.

Stumbling sleepy and hungover into your bathroom, you pry open the medicine cabinet and swallow two Tylenol. Your immediate concern was curing your hangover and getting showered and dressed.

As you go about a slow start to your Saturday and wonder what to do with the rest of your mostly-shot day, your thoughts turn to Obi-Wan. You remember him from the night before through the rosy, champagne-colored glass of memory that makes you giddy at the thought of his smiling features and soft blue eyes. 

You hope that he’ll take you up on your offer for tea sooner rather than later.

As the hot water of your shower baths you in warmth and revives you a little you imagine, quite salaciously, what it would be like to have him here standing under the water next to you—to run your fingers through his wet hair and feel the warmth of his body against yours as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

You indulge your imagination through the time it takes to shampoo and condition your hair before washing away the thought along with the rest of the suds on your body. You were all too familiar with this bad habit of making people out to be much better than they really were. You couldn’t afford another heartbreak as bad as the last one—or so you told yourself.

Being single wasn’t so bad. You had time to explore every interest that took your fancy. You could watch any movie you wanted on a Friday night and there was no one to be concerned about when they went drinking with their friends.

You sigh.

No, you wouldn’t think of Obi-Wan in that way, not until you knew he liked you and could be trusted. And not until you trusted yourself not to get nervous and drive him away somehow.

You don a plush, white bathrobe and tread barefoot over the ancient wood flooring, across the oriental rug in your living room and . . . stopping in front of one of the colonial windows you see the figure of Obi-Wan walking down your driveway with a picnic basket in hand.

You scramble to cover more of your chest and leap away down the hallway to your bedroom to change.

You _had_ given him an open-ended invitation to come by for tea.

You’re only in underwear and a bra by the time you hear the patter of a knock at your front door.

“Coming!”

You yell, stumbling and practically falling into a pair of jeans and a checkered button-down, short-sleeve shirt. You fall to the ground at least once and bang into a side table and a dresser as you wrestle with cloth against the cling of your damp skin.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Yup!”

A cheap vase comes crashing to the floor at the same moment, but at least you’re dressed.

You answer the front door panting, hair wet, and in a shirt with a few buttons clearly coming undone.

“Obi-Wan! It’s so nice of you to drop by.”

You watch as he takes in both you and the chaos that must have immediately proceeded this moment. His eyes light up in laughter, but the emotion falls short of leaving his lips.

Obi-Wan is thoughtfully dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve black henley shirt with his blonde hair gelled to look careless, yet put together. Clearly, he had put more thought into his outfit than you did.

“I brought over some finger sandwiches to go with that tea you promised.”

Then, as if checking himself: “I’m so sorry for the intrusion, I should have come by much later in the day seeing as how we were up so late last night.”

The vagueness of this last sentence makes you wish that it didn’t just refer to talking and stargazing—though those were still very good things for that sentence to be alluding to.

“No, no, don’t be. You could never be an intrusion. I was in the process of getting up and dressed anyway.”

You pause for a moment, realizing the revealing words you’d just sandwiched between what was otherwise a fairly neutral and polite greeting.

“That was very thoughtful of you. We could sit out back in the shade.”

Nervous and unsure of how to get him through the cottage and out-back like a good hostess under any normal circumstances, you tell him to come in and give vague descriptors of the rooms you pass through—like he couldn’t already tell that the room with the couches in it was the living room and the room with the stove was the kitchen.

When you notice him stop at a picture of a mostly-completed sketch of a lily hanging in the kitchen, you automatically explain: “Oh, that’s a drawing by Elliot March. He was a local artist who used to visit the museum often. Before he passed away, he gave me that sketch as a gift. He told me that he never finished it because he thought it looked better when you used your imagination to fill the details in.”

You weren’t thinking so much about the words you were saying as the nerves in your stomach, but they apparently had an effect on Obi-Wan.

He tilted his head as if to will his imagination to look at the picture in a different way, then looked over at you.

“I really like it.”

You smile, pleased with yourself for owning something that could also be pleasing to someone like Obi-Wan.

You direct him out the kitchen door to the refurbished patio set, circa 1950. As a historian, your love for vintage things was only natural.

“The architecture of this cottage is also really beautiful, but if I indulge myself, we’d never get to tea.”

Obi-Wan muses.

You find his passion for his work endearing and almost tell him that he could take as long as he wanted to indulge himself in the simplicity of your novo-eighteenth-century cottage, but you’re also naturally selfish for his attention.

Once the tea is ready, the two of you sit across from each other in chairs meant for petite housewives to complain about their husbands over tea.

Obi-Wan at first looks unconformable as he tries to best position himself in the antique chair but the second the hot liquid of his Earl Grey hits his tongue, you notice he relaxes into it with ease.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

It felt like a question that should have been asked much earlier in their interaction, but considering the sleep you’d had, it didn’t feel all that out of place.

“Not really, but I guess drinking will do that.”

“You didn’t seem drunk when I saw you last night.”

It wasn’t an accusatory statement, just an observation.

“No, but I was a little while before you saw me. I woke up with an awful hangover . . . though, now that I think about it, my hangover’s all but gone.”

You head wasn’t pounding anymore and your stomach was as normal and settled as it was on any other day.

You watched for something on Obi-Wan’s face, something that might tell you that he was steering the conversation in the direction you thought he might be. It seemed too silly in the full light of day for you to mention first.

“You said you had some questions last night before we parted.”

“Yes.”

You remember hesitantly.

“I might be able to help explain some things.”

You consider letting him explain what he meant by that, but by this point, you both know what he meant.

“Can you read my thoughts all the time, even when I’m not around?”

“Thankfully, no. It’s hard to explain, but I can only read what you let me read in your mind. Things are a bit different when we touch, but that’s something else entirely.”

“Something else entirely?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I wish I could explain it myself, but you’re the only person I’ve ever done that with.”

“And you call it ‘the Force’?”

“Yes. It’s a name someone gave it a long time ago.”

_Why me, though?_

_Maybe it has an affinity for clumsy people._

You challenge the laughing sparkle in his eye with a hard glare.

_That would imply that you’re clumsy too._

_I wasn’t denying it._

You break character and smile into your tea.

“Is there anything else you can do with ‘the Force’?”

“Some things, like move objects if I really concentrate. But, the primary purpose seems to be building empathy for the natural world and making one more attuned with one’s mind and body.”

“Fascinating. It sounds a bit like Buddhism.”

“It’s a religion—and yet it’s not. It’s kind of beyond religion in many ways.”

“Why have I only discovered this ability in myself now? It seems like you’ve known about it your whole life.”

A shadow falls over Obi-Wan’s features and you don’t know what to make of it.

“It’s because someone showed me first, like I showed you. After my parents . . . after they died, I was taken in and cared for by people who had the same abilities. But that was years ago.”

“Like a cult?”

It sounded a little rude when you put it that way, but you couldn’t think of any other way to describe it.

“Yes, maybe you could call it that. But I think the better term for it is monastery or even a university of sorts.”

“Like in X-Men?”

“I wish, but honestly I can’t remember much about it. I was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia when I turned eighteen. Everything about my life before then is quite hazy—like a dream. My earliest clear memory is being surrounded by doctors in Edinburgh Hospital when I was diagnosed. They told me I had had a bad fall.”

“I’m so sorry. That sounds terrible.”

You feel like maybe you’d breached something too sensitive, but Obi-Wan brought it up with such curious detachment—like he was talking about someone else and not himself—that you don’t feel so bad about it.

“It isn’t terrible if I can’t remember why it could be terrible in the first place. I’m just as curious about the beginning of my life as you are.”

“So, I remind you of those lost memories, of those people who taught you about the Force when you were younger?”

It was a question packed with so much intimacy it was almost disappointing.

“Yes and no. Your Force sensitivity is a pleasant surprise, but it isn’t the only reason why I enjoy your company.”

He was as smooth in his compliment as an old Hollywood actor romancing his female lead.

You wanted to ask ‘why?’ but stop yourself.

_You’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met, and beautiful, but that goes without saying._

His silky Scottish accent in your head sends shivers down your spine.

_I wasn’t expecting that._

You didn’t know you had thought the words until they were met with the response: _I wasn’t expecting you._

“You’re . . . the most charming and fascinating person I’ve ever met.”

“Is that all?”

The way he flirted with the full conviction of his cerulean blue eyes and soft Scottish features excited every part of you. The emotion came across as a blush and you pressed, playfully:

“Well, if it wasn’t for the way you hide yourself away from the world like a fairytale princess, you’d be almost perfect.” 

“Hide myself away? Madam, I do protest. I’ve been your neighbor for how many months now and you only just noticed me two days ago.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So have I.”

“With what?”

“Secret Jedi business.”

“What?”

You laugh, unfamiliar with the term.

“It’s just a saying I heard once as a child. I don’t know what it means so I use it as a filler word like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

“I like that.”

As you both briefly resume eating and drinking, you contemplate asking Obi-Wan to the gala next Saturday. You’re not sure if Obi-Wan is listening to these thoughts buzzing around in your head, but you’re not sure that you’d care if he were. The idea of him listening to your thoughts was too helpful to be unnerving. It had broken down all the usual barriers that normal conversation would have taken much longer to accomplish.

You bring up his drawing in the café instead and the two of you fall effortlessly into a conversation that lasts most of the rest of the day.

When evening begins to fall, Obi-Wan takes up his picnic basket and lingers for a few moments by the front door as you say your goodbyes.

“I had a wonderful time today.”

He smiles simply, almost shyly.

“So did I.”

You sense some hesitation in him like he wanted to say more but was afraid somehow.

“Are you going to the gala next weekend?”

He decided.

“No, I’m afraid there’s a big conference that day in Boston I have to attend.”

“Oh.”

He sounded disappointed.

“Omg Obi-Wan. I helped to put the thing together, of course, I’ll be there! Why do you ask?”

_You’re so mean._

You wish he’d kiss you like he was presently imagining.

“I was going to ask if you had someone to go with—a dance partner.”

“Applications are still open for that position.”

He drew nearer to you, closing the already narrow gap a little more.

“I’d like to submit an application, then.”

You tilt your face up a little to contemplate his lips and whether or not you wanted to be the first to meet them.

_May I?_

He asks, already knowing the answer as your lips greet his in a kiss that grows in intensity. Wonderful patterns of color and light fill your minds as if the Force itself reacted in approval.

He holds your waist with a strong but gentle grip and you find your arms winding around his neck as you pulled each other in closer.

It is a consuming, yet tender secession of kisses that ends breathlessly with the two of you still in each other’s arms. Obi-Wan looks down at you, breathless and smiling, and presses his forehead to yours.

_That was amazing._

_Ditto._

You both kiss again, briefly, before Obi-Wan reluctantly takes his leave. He would have stayed—and you would have asked him to—but something in the both of you seemed to say that it was too soon. A kiss would have to be enough for now.

You smile lazily to yourself as you watch him disappear up your long dirt driveway.


End file.
